Episodes
Sunday Nov 29, 2015
Already. And Not Yet.
Sunday Nov 29, 2015
Sunday Nov 29, 2015
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC November 29, 2015, Advent 1.
Text: Luke 21:25-36
“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress…people will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world…then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’…when these things begin to take place, stand and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
It is always jarring to hear these apocalyptic words at the same time of the year as “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” becomes part of the collective cultural soundtrack. But the strange text we heard today is much more appropriate to the season we enter into today. That season is Advent, the season of preparation for Christmas. The word “Advent” derives from the Latin adventus, which means “coming.” Each year this season calls the community of faith to prepare for the comings of Christ.[1] During Advent, we encounter what has come to be understood as the “already and not-yet” character of God’s transforming presence in the world. The “already” part is that Jesus was born as a historical person who walked on the earth among us in the past, and that Christ is present now through the Spirit; these things are “already” they are “now.” The “not yet” part of God’s coming into the world is clear: we, like Christians before us for over 2000 years, are looking ahead to that future time when the fullness of Christ’s reign will be realized, to that future when Christ’s coming will be complete and all-embracing. And we know quite well that reality of universal love, justice, compassion, and peace is “not yet.”
In the years following Jesus’s death, some early Christian communities, living under tremendous persecution and the despair caused by events like the destruction of the Jerusalem temple, expected the world to end at any moment, they expected Christ to come again with cataclysmic flashes of lightning and all the rest. Yet, as time passed and the world, oppressive as it was, continued, that expectation began to fade. Christians had to learn how to wait, how to not give up on the whole thing, how to remain a people of hopeful expectation in the tension between the historical events of Jesus’ life and the desire that God’s realm be fulfilled on earth. They had to learn to live in the “already” without losing hope in the “not yet.”
“Already and not yet.” It’s one of those pesky Christian paradoxical mysteries. And it is at the heart of our spiritual life during this part of the liturgical year. Advent and Christmas are indeed paradoxical: baby and king; now and not-yet; fully God and fully human; darkness and light. And in a sense this forms the paradox in which we find ourselves: We are who we are now and we are still growing into the not-yet of our future selves—we are always being and becoming; we are so very human and we are also children of God; we are somewhere between the fact of shadow and the hope of light. That is where we are. That is who we are. The spiritual journey invites us to be a people of hopeful expectation in the “in between times,” in the movement and growing from the reality of now to the hopeful vision of our “not yets.”
But sometimes life eats away at our ability to remain a people of hopeful expectation. Sometimes it’s hard to be hopeful that we can grow and change, that the world can be different, or that all that seems so helpless and hopeless can be redeemed. Our Gospel today acknowledges the anxieties of human life and the fact that these anxieties can weigh heavily on our hearts. And so we find ourselves often, in our own lives, expecting the worst; and yet we gather as a people, again and again to expect the best, to experience again the ancient tale of One who came into the world to save it, the one who came to show us that our hope is not in vain. Thousands of years have passed and still we cry out, “Come, thou long-expected Jesus.” We gather this week and the next three weeks to find the courage to hope. We walk into, literally, the darkest days of the earth’s cycle, trying to have our eyes and hearts open to the light that we believe is coming.
Our faith teaches us that what has come and is yet to come fully—is the holiness of God, God’s perfect love in Christ that brings all our hoped-for “not yets” to completion. All the confusion, the brokenness, the fear—these things will be mended and tended and released by the power of God’s love. That love is so powerful that it resonates like a crack of thunder, it sends tremors throughout the world, it seems to shift the sun and moon from their expected courses and makes some stars shine more brightly than they should. To come face to face with the Christ who shows us who we are in all our paradoxical humanity, to be encountered by a love and humility and power so perfect in itself that it can only be divine, to feel ourselves bathed in this Light of holiness even midst the anxieties of our lives, this is what we are waiting for, looking for, longing for.
But most of our lives are lived in ordinary moments of sleep, work, conversation, buying and selling, reading the paper, going to brunch, walking the dog, doing the dishes, getting the kids off to school. Our lives are marked by the routine and mundane, only occasionally being startled out of those patterns by extraordinary circumstance, or by the seasons of the church. Our expectation is for the light and love of Christ to shine in and through all creation and all beings. But today, this year, this Advent, we are not there yet. We still live between times. We still need to figure out how to remain a people of active, hopeful expectation, even as we go about the ordinary stuff of our lives.
Jesus taught the disciples to “Be on guard…to be alert at all times.” This doesn’t mean to be fearful and guarded. I think the invitation is to pay attention, to look for the places where the light of Christ is shining even in the present moment. A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with a member of Foundry who said he was having a hard time seeing God working for good in the world. And, God knows, it is a struggle to believe that goodness is stronger than evil, to believe that all day long God is working for good in the world; that struggle is pervasive and real. My response—to myself as much as to my friend—is to keep praying the prayer and, in the midst of all that is wrong, to look for even small signs of love, beauty, courage, and hope. Those gifts are just as present—and they are so much more powerful than the nasty, destructive energies and actions of the world. But in this season when our “ordinary” lives can become overloaded with tasks and emotions and plans, it is perhaps even more difficult than normal to “be alert” to the presence and activity of God. Last week, Pastor Ben prayed about the way that we move at “break neck speed” toward the end of the year. And isn’t that true? Everything moves too fast in the day to day; and our calendars and “to do” lists can take over. In the midst of it all, the challenge is to slow down, to stop when we can, to acknowledge that deep feeling in our center that makes us really listen; to stop and glory in the signs in the sun and the moon and the stars; to use those moments when traffic is slow or the lines are long to look around for the reflections and shimmers of the sacred.
We might need to cultivate a bit more silence in our lives to do this well. Perhaps turning off the radio in the car on the daily commute, or turning off the television or social media at least one full day a week (or even for several hours) during this season is a good idea. To “unplug” from all the noise and distractions—for minutes or days—heightens our ability to see and to hear and to receive what is: what IS is the transforming power and presence of God’s love in Jesus Christ. Because even though Christ’s coming in its fullness is “not yet,” our faith teaches us that the Holy One of God is adventus even now. Be alert. Pay attention. Look for the ways that God is at work—even in small ways. The subtle, glorious and tender fullness of the realm of God is as near as the cold brush of air on your face, always and already about to break open. Live an anticipation so alert that the ordinary hums and cracks and flashes with holiness. Bask in the light that has already come and cling to the promise that someday—probably when you’re busy making other plans—the “not yets” of your life, your relationships, your church, our world, will be fulfilled and redeemed…fully. And…finally!
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